


They Must Be Waiting For You To Move On

by xxELF21xx



Series: Red Dead Redemption [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Hood/Arsenal (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Crossover, Damian Wayne is Robin, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Dissociation, Gen, Heavy Angst, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Jason whump, M/M, Mentioned Roy Harper/Jason Todd, Minor Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, Minor Violence, Non-Graphic Violence, Protectiveness, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Teleportation, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Wade Whump, Wade Wilson Breaking the Fourth Wall, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug, i guess?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-05-17 07:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14828403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxELF21xx/pseuds/xxELF21xx
Summary: There's something wrong here, that much is obvious.He shouldn't have done that.





	1. tired. voices.

**Author's Note:**

> So, [Jen](https://twitter.com/FlipityFlip) wanted a Deadpool/Red Hood crossover fic and I'm here to provide it!! 
> 
> It wasn't supposed to be dark and depressing in any way, but it just sort of happened... so... Do read the tags just in case of any triggers.

Gotham is, as ever, unforgiving and emotionless in the wake of one of her most loyal children. Jason stares from above, aquamarine eyes glowing eerily in the gloomy darkness, observing the overly-grand procession of Penelope Grinz. Gotham’s favourite girl, the girl that deserved more, the pride and joy of Gotham’s film industry. Gotham’s number one Batman fan.

Jason’s helmet is bashed into shards on the bloodied rooftop, a stark contrast to the dirty floor. His domino mask flies along with the breeze, escaping through a loose grasp. Around him, gunmen and useless mooks litter the area. His eyes track the movement of the casket, crawling at a snail’s pace in Gotham’s fight-ridden streets. Beneath him, Nightwing’s suit is torn to shreds as the man collapses from blood loss.

Jason makes no move to help.

Over the comms, Batgirl and Black Bat are being tremendously outnumbered; and Oracle demands back-up for a troubled Signal. Batman and Robin’s heavy pants ring in his ears.

Jason makes no move to help.

His mind is far away, foggy and disoriented. His muscles scream for rest, yet he does not relax his poise. His heart is thumping a dull, slow tune. Adrenaline leaves him, and sleep takes its place.

Yes, Jason wants to go back to his apartment, go back to his own bed, and sleep for a million years. Maybe he could even leave peacefully in a dreamless slumber.

A crunch from behind him has all his senses on high alert, and suddenly he realises how far gone he went. Reaching into a pocket, he draws out a spare mask and hurriedly slaps it into place; not even flinching at the tug of glue against the corners of his eyes.

The figure in front of him is clad in red… from head to toe. Jason’s adrenaline-addled brain catalogues all their weaknesses, all their strengths. This person will be difficult to handle. Placing more weight on his right leg, he readies himself for the ensuing fight, mindless of the gaping wound in his stomach.

‘Whoa! Hey,’ the figure says, voice unnaturally high pitched, ‘let’s _not_ fight, okay? Look, I was on my way to, uh, _oh shut up, White! Lemme talk, gee!_ I was on my way back home, to sweet, sweet Queens, an- **yeah, I** **_know_ ** **we don’t technically live in Queens, but you get the gist,** but my teleporter fucked up and now here I am!’ The dramatic hand gestures stop abruptly, as the figure takes a look around them, ‘I don’t know where I am.’

Jason blinks tiredly. He turns around, not ready to face the current problem. Bruce will deal with him. Or Gordon. He is at the edge of the roof, ready to freefall down to pick Nightwing up when the figure yells out something he can’t quite make out. ‘Oh, _fuck!_ Spidey is gonna _kill me_ when I get back.’

Jason tumbles off the edge with the grace of a dead body.

He very nearly forgets to use his grappling gun, if not for his subconscious mind. Automatically, he tucks himself into a ball and lands crouched, knees scraping the insides of his pants and grapple gun stored away. Rushing over to Nightwing, he hoarsely informs the others that the Boy Wonder is out of commission.

‘Take care, Hood,’ Batgirl chirps, a sliver of worry tinging her words as she fights off a goon. He says nothing, shutting off his comm and wrapping his jacket around his idiot brother’s body. Not long after, he’s soaring through the streets of Gotham, diverging from the path of the procession and back to the Cave, where Penny One stands at attention, ready to patch them up and send them off to bed.

This just means that Jason’s flying with a dead weight in his hands alongside his own dead body, through the grimy air of a land he calls home.

 _There’s something drastically wrong here,_ he muses.

 

-+-

  


There is something _drastically_ wrong here, Wade can tell. He has _never_ breathed in such _toxic_ air in his life, not even when he was in the crackpot of a facility.

 **Have you forgotten the part where we’re not in our own universe already?** Yellow snorts, he doesn’t react. He’s getting better at that, not reacting to taunts and quips. Although, habits die hard.

Wade surveys the rooftop once more. The people he thought were dead were, in fact, just maimed and concussed. The other man he had met earlier, with weird black-and-white hair and an aura even Death would fear had felt… _weird._ It was as if the red bat hadn’t wanted to live anymore, or he was dissociating. The red shards on the floor glare at him, a brighter red than his own suit.

‘Wonder what this is,’ he asks rhetorically, yelping in shock and tossing the remains of the helmet a distance away from him as soon as he sees the control panels. ‘A _bomb?!_ A motherfucking bomb, in a _helmet?!_ Does this person have a death wish?!’ He cusses, picking it back up and neutralising it before it could go off in any way. The internals of the helmet are fried, the interface cracked and dead. _Kinda looks like Stark’s faceplate,_ he thinks.

A billboard catches his attention. **_Wayne Enterprises,_ ** they read together. ‘Oh, I see,’ he sighs, ‘we’re in _Gotham.’_ Taking a few leaps between rooftops, he lands above what appears to be a hotel.

It’s a fancy-schmancy hotel, too!

Flickering his disguise on, he slides down the pipes, noting how much of a riot the streets were. _And we thought New York during New Year’s Eve was terrible,_ White comments idly, bored. He hums a minute reply, dropping down onto the entrance and waltzing his way past the front desk.

The disguise fades away the moment he enters room 1313. He draws the curtains, heating up a kettle and pouring away the mineral water. ‘How will we get back?’ He wonders, tapping his teleportation device, knowing the cooldown period on that thing takes _forever._ **Time for an upgrade!** He agrees, once again; and puts the kettle on its stand once again, draining the first boil.

The kettle goes off two minutes later. Wade has been staring at the television screen for ten minutes.

A quizzical smile forms on their face. ‘Gotham sure is strange,’ he says, dumping a stick of sugar into the cup of tea he didn’t realise he’d made.

He takes a sip, appreciating how the Lipton still tastes like Lipton -- the blandest, most boring tea in the world, with the faintest hint of what should be berries -- enjoying the slight burn of water.

Spidey would be _so_ pissed. He was supposed to be a support in a super huge drug bust. They hope Spidey is okay, that Spidey isn’t too heavily injured.  

His rashes burn, but he ignores them, taking careful sips of scalding tea. Thirty minutes pass, the channel on TV has changed, but Wade continues to drink his tea and watch his show.

Gotham is as emotionless and depressing as they depict.

He starts to bleed, but they pay no mind.

 

-+-  


 

Jason feels himself drifting away sooner than he expected. He’s checked into one of Penguin’s hotels for the night, under the guise of a businessman that just returned from China and is on the way to Los Angeles. He slips on the persona of William easily, the accent changing from the usual flat tone to a slightly more melodic tune, with a slight lilt at every other word. Room 1311 is vacant from the moment he checks in, as he takes a sharp left to knock on 1309.

In a heartbeat, the door is opened and behind it reveals Tim; who’d been on a stakeout for three whole days. ‘How’s it going, Ronin?’ He drawls, amusement leaking out of his tone. His voice is terribly hoarse for someone who hasn’t smoked a cigarette in over a year; he blames it on the chilly weather and his immune system.

It is not the fault of chilly weather and his immune system.

Tim flinches at the name, cheeks red in embarrassment. ‘Shut up,’ he mutters, gesturing for his brother to enter. Jason takes a furtive glance at the living room area of the room, tutting when he sees the empty coffee cups. ‘Tea is better for you, and it’s stronger.’ He comments mildly, taking his shoes off and letting socked feet rejoice in the comfort of the plush carpet.

Tim says nothing, sighing softly, as he returns to his little spot by the side of the couch. He rests his head on the hand rest, tired eyes blinking sleepily. Jason takes a moment to absorb just _how_ tired his poor brother was. Jason had felt like that the night before. He huffs, picking up the cups and placing them into the tiny kitchenette sink, ‘take a break, baby bird. It’s time for some rest.’

The sound of rushing water evades them both. Tim tries to protest, but Jason is an unyielding opponent. ‘Wash up and rest, Timothy. Please,’ he says, not willing to go further. He’s still tired. Tim’s eyes go wide and sharp, staring at him with an intensity from years prior when he was still a crime lord and had killed to gain attention.

He still is a crime lord, but he no longer kills to gain attention. He hardly ever kills, these days.

Jason busies himself with cleaning up the room as best as he can, dumping the trash bags at door and washing up the stained cups. He even goes as far as to cook a light meal for Tim, using what little groceries he’d bought.

Apparently, Tim Drake likes empty fridges.

It takes an additional five minutes to make sweetened egg rolls stuffed with peppers, but by the time the table is set, Tim has reappeared. Although, he looks even _worse._ Jason decides to give both egg rolls to Tim.

Wordlessly, Tim sits down, not bothering to remove the towel from his damp head. Jason rolls his eyes, sliding his plate towards him. Tim nods a small thanks as he begins to eat, scarfing down the food as if he’d been deprived for far too long.

‘Go to bed, I’ll wake you up later,’ he says, making quick work of drying Tim’s hair. His brother nods, eyes on the verge of closing.

Jason doesn’t start eating his own portion until he’s prepared another five sets and kept them in the fridge with instructions to reheat them. He doesn’t mind eating cold food.

He takes up post by the monitors, typing out report after report for Wayne Enterprises, as well as reports for Batman. The endlessly monotonous _click-clack_ of the keyboards are soothing, as he mindlessly types out things that should matter to him. They don’t matter to him, though.

Nothing much matters to him anymore.

He pulls an all-nighter, ringing up Roy and asking for his assistance in patrolling Gotham for him. ‘Sure,’ his partner agrees easily, ‘make sure to rest up, though.’

‘Yeah, I will,’ he lies. Roy picks up on it but says nothing.

He wakes Tim up at ten in the morning the next day, with an entire cart of food from room service. There is no coffee, only tea. ‘The case should be closed by patrol tonight,’ he adds on, stirring milk into black tea. Tim smiles a small, relieved grin.

‘When we’re done,’ his brother speaks, voice soft, ‘will you come home?’

Jason takes a huge gulp of his drink, carefully placing the mug down. ‘We’ll see.’

He leaves room 1309, checking out of room 1311. William thanks the hotel staff for their hospitality, even though Jason witnessed none of it.

 

-+-

 

Tim opens up his fridge to find it stocked full of containers. _Preheat them when you’re hungry._ ‘That Jason,’ he sighs, ‘he knows I’m going back tonight and yet…’ He is pretty hungry, the breakfast cart wasn’t enough. He picks a box up, _mac n cheese,_ it says in a flurry of swirls. He digs into the fridge more until he lands on some stuffed sweetened egg rolls. Tim heats up both boxes.

By the time he checks out, the fridge is empty again.

 

-+-

  


Wade wakes up at eleven to an amazing scent. A combination of sugar, butter and spice. It smells like the waffles Clint would cook up whenever he’d crash over at the spy’s place.

‘Oh, we’re not in our universe,’ he remembers. The boxes start their chattering immediately, spouting a thousand ways to get home. ‘Spidey is going to skin me alive and melt me down,’ he groans, the ever-growing headache subsides for a little while as they share a moment of silence. ‘This is getting depressing,’ he snorts, ‘time to get some grub!’

Fortunately for him, his room had a little kitchenette. ‘Handy,’ he muses. Unfortunately, his fridge is empty. He frowns, the white interior of the fridge staring at him. He does have more than a million dollars stashed in his various pockets, but he’s getting low on ammo, and he needs clothes. Actual clothes, not the holographic disguises. ‘Darn it,’ he hisses, slamming the door shut and dialling up room service.

Room service was _expensive,_ too. ‘This is so unfair,’ Wade mutters, waiting for the line to connect. _‘Room service, how can I help you?’_ A polite voice greets him, lifting up his mood a little. ‘Hi, this is room 1313, I would like to request for a plate of fried rice.’ There is a light murmur as the employee relays his order, _‘would that be all?’_

Wade hums, gaze stuck on two coupons for chimichangas. ‘Actually, yes. Do you know of any good chimichanga places?’ The other side is quiet for a while, as if in shocked silence. _‘Don’t tell anyone I told you this,’_ the voice jokes, _‘but the corner restaurant four blocks down, near Amusement Mile, the junction of Smites and Loriena Avenue. It’s a Mexican restaurant named Citrus, a big neon sign out front. You won’t miss it. They serve up pretty mean chimichangas.’_

He scribbles it down on a notepad, ‘thanks, dude.’ The voice chirps his goodbye and cuts the line. **Do you think they keep maps in the drawers?** _Nah, it’s probably available at the concierge, though._

‘Food first, plans later.’ He announces, making a cup of coffee this time. It tastes stronger, with a strong chocolatey aftertaste. Wade decides against adding sugar or milk. He does add creamer, though. Mainly because that’s how Spidey liked it. ‘Must’ve done it unconsciously, again,’ he chuckles.

The bell rings. ‘Just leave it outside! I’m in the shower right now, thank you!’ He calls, filling up the bathtub. A soft _thump_ is heard, and footsteps wonder down the corridor until it disappears completely. He waits for another minute before he opens the door, swiftly scooping up the tray and clicking the door shut. At the same time, a familiar figure leaves a room, marching down the hall in a laid-back manner.

Teal eyes meet his own brown ones just as the door closes.

 _Those eyes look awfully familiar._ ‘Yeah, they do.’ **A soldier’s eyes, one that came back the wrong way.**

Wade got the feeling it won’t be last time he sees that pair of eerie eyes, glowing a bright green and searing everything it glanced at.  

 

-+-

 

Deep breaths, just take deep breaths, he tells himself. There is no need for panic.

 _‘Hood?’_ Oracle’s mechanical voice asks, flat with emotions. He doesn’t reply, gaze caught on blonde pigtails. Harley Quinn lifts her massive jackhammer up, slamming it down with a force so strong it shakes the earth. His teeth rattle from the aftershocks, and he shivers involuntarily.

‘Oh, birdie~ come play with me!’ The woman laughs, happily destroying anything in her way with her ridiculous toy. His breaths get increasingly shorter

 _'Jason,’_ Barbara’s voice cuts into his mind, ‘your vitals are fluctuating.’ _I know, Babs._ ‘I need you to follow my lead, is that alright?’ He nods jerkily, then remembers that Babs can’t see him ‘cause there aren’t any cameras in sight. He replies with a strange noise, hoping the lady could pick it out. _‘Jason, I need you to get out of Amusement Mile, and head for the junction of Smites and Lorey, watch out for any bombs along the way. A new player has arrived. The others can’t get a good attack in since they’re too fast and Batman’s currently fighting Ivy down in the Narrows.’_

‘Then who’ll-- ‘ A red and black figure drops down from above, wings flared out dramatically. ‘Those egg rolls are amazing,’ Red Robin grins, what little skin showed glowing, ‘couldn’t help but stuff myself with them.’ Jason stares, watching the younger bird twirl his bo-staff around while surveying the area. ‘You’re supposed to be resting,’ disbelief colours his words, Red Robin smiles sheepishly. ‘Uh, Batgirl requested I tag along with you?’ Tim pushes him away from Harley, ‘anyways, go! Robin’s injured and growling like a Neanderthal. Kid won’t back down no matter how hard I try.’

Jason runs off, throwing out a couple of mini-bombs Roy had made him. ‘Use those to throw her off, bring her in.’ He orders, ‘and for God’s sake, _Ronin,_ get some fucking _sleep_ and _proper_ food.’ Tim barks out a laugh, launching himself into the fray. Red Robin’s cape flutter silently in the dim street lights, the vigilante looked like a little devil out for havoc.

Red Hood fires his grapple gun, slinging into the dark sky, switching his comm just in time to get Robin to stand down and run a little further up north. Robin gives a grunt in reply, breathing fast and shallow, ‘he’s in all red, two katanas on his back, multiple firearms. A friend of yours?’ His snarky brother spits out, a little _whoosh_ informing him just how close they were from each other.

He ignores the question, ‘meet me up at the rooftop twenty degrees from your west,’ soaring up the skyscraper. The reflection of a timid, masked man burns his eyes. He drops down a second before Robin comes crashing down into him, his attacker hot on his heels. Immediately, Red Hood has his guns in hand; the safety goes off as he takes the first shot, aiming straight for the other person’s lungs. It hits, and his target gets thrown back by the impact. Robin pants wetly, it doesn’t take a genius to know that he’s coughing up blood.

Jason growls, shielding Damian from the bullets the red-clad man fires back. ‘Let’s _not_ fight, huh?’ He sneers, blowing the bastard full of bullets. Not once did they protest in pain. ‘A bunch of bullshit that is,’ Damian chokes on his coughs, hands clutching a smoke bomb. _Do it,_ he whispers. Robin tosses the disc directly onto the person’s face, causing a _“gack!”_ of surprise. Smoke spills out immediately, surrounding the Deathstroke copycat. _‘Nightwing is arriving in under ten seconds.’_ Oracle’s voice practically sings, the blue _V_ leaping into sight and next to them.

‘That was dirty,’ the smoke howls, ‘I was trying to get chimichangas! Then this _traffic light_ attacked me! Fuck you guys, honestly.’ Jason bandages up his youngest brother as best as he can while Nightwing takes over, holding the fort until Red Hood is back. Damian’s ribs are fractured, and his eye is busted. His uniform has too many bullet holes in it. There’s more red on it than he’d remembered. Green colours Jason’s vision, hazing into his mind and urging him to kill, kill. _Kill._

 _‘Harley and Ivy are down; ETA three minutes,’_ Signal’s voice crops up for the first time that night. _‘Do you need Black Bat and Batgirl?’_ Nightwing gives an affirmative, ‘they’re nearer to us, get them to bring Robin back first.’

_‘Penny One on standby.’_

‘Don’t think we’re acquainted.’ Nightwing quips, ‘I’m Nightwing, this is Red Hood. That kid you bashed up is Robin.’ Their assailant goes deadly still, the narrow slits of white blowing wide. ‘That was a _kid?!_ I beat a _kid_ up?! _Shut up, shut up, shut up,_ **shut up, shut up,** **_shut the fuck up! I know what I’ve done!’_ ** The screaming doesn’t seem to be aimed at either of them, but it rattles them; they move to stand over their fallen brother, tense as a wire.

Batgirl and Black Bat arrive silently, a quick nod from Jason has Batgirl scooping Damian up and zipping away in seconds. Black Bat hangs behind, body jerkish. The screaming hasn’t stopped.

Jason knows insanity when he sees it. It’s an old friend. The green still lingers, whispering nasty things into his ear. _Take revenge while you still can. You cannot fail another. They_ **_deserve_ ** _it. It is justified._ ‘Shut up,’ he growls lowly, lifting a gun up. Alarm shoots up Nightwing’s spine, _‘Hood,’_ a warning.

Black Bat watches him with a wariness he doesn’t notice.

Red Robin touches down, the flare of his wings loud and grinding. The boots fall onto the surface ring in his ears.

Batman swoops over them all, a looming dark shadow from above.

Jason shoots. The world is quiet.


	2. end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for all the positive feedback!! I'm glad y'all like the story! <3

The red figure falls over the edge, body mutilated with multiple bullet wounds. Jason’s hands don’t stop trembling. Inwardly, his mind screams at him for screwing up; he killed the person. He  _ promised  _ he would abide by the rules but he  _ killed somebody.  _

A sob crawls up his throat, the world has dulled into boring greys again. The morality of his actions crash into him at full force -- he broke the promise. He broke his promise: just like how Catherine broke hers, and Willis broke his, and Bruce broke his, and Sheila broke hers. Bile threatens to rise up his gullet.

Breathing harshly, he tries to justify his actions.  _ The asshole was going to kill Damian. Bruce can’t lose Damian again. He can’t. _

_ What I did was wrong. _

He sucks in a breath harshly, trying to tamp down the cruel taunts of his mind. The voices telling him to harm, to kill, to take revenge, to  _ lash out.  _ ‘Shut up,’ he cries, ‘shut up, shut up, shut up,  _ shut up.’  _ Jason’s legs give out, collapsing like a mouse trap; falling onto the rough rooftop floor, he scrapes his still trembling hand on a jagged piece of metal.

His pale hand turns dark red in an instant. The voices drop to a murmur as he watches, fascinated, at the way  _ his  _ blood splatters onto the floor silently. Glowing eyes remain fixed on his wound. He makes no sound, transfixed.

Distantly, he recalls not having stopped crying. The tears mix with his blood, with his wound. It stings, but he doesn’t do anything about it.

Jason wonders if he could die, bleeding out like this.

‘Hood, Hood,’ Red Robin’s voice lulls him back into reality. There’s a weird tone in the younger boy’s voice, an odd mix of horror and worry. ‘Hood!’ It turns urgent, panicked. He raises his eyes to meet white lens.  _ Like the white lens of the person you shot off the roof. _

The spell breaks.

Jason starts screaming as the world tilts in shades of green.

 

-+-

  
His little wing, his little brother -- he watches in pure horror as Jason lifts his gun up, hands shaky and body shivering.  _ ‘Hood,’  _ he gasps, eyes widening. 

Time seemed to slow down, at that moment.

He watches in slow motion as his little wing fires off one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine,  _ ten  _ times. His hand doesn’t stop shivering, but he doesn’t miss. He hears the red figure cough and hack as each bullet pushes him closer and closer to the edge.

He feels as though his body is made of lead.

The red figure falls. A loud, resounding  _ “splat!”  _ tears through his ears. Flashes of how his parents looked like when they landed, all broken bones and thinning blood, runs in his mind repeatedly.

Then, suddenly, Jason collapses roughly onto the floor; injuring himself accidentally on a sharp piece of a rusty pipe. He expects him to quickly find a way to stop the bleeding, but nothing happens. Blood continues to flow out of the wound, dripping insanely loud. Jason just continues to sit motionlessly on the floor.

‘Hood?’ His horror twists into something more… more  _ horrified,  _ when no response is elicited. Red Hood’s gaze seems to fall on his injury. Drops of tears escape the helmet, collecting on the floor and mixing with Jason’s blood in a grotesque way.  

_ ‘What’s happening?’  _ The harried voices of Duke and Barbara buzz.  _ ‘Jason?’  _ Barbara sounds panicked,  _ ‘Jason, your vitals are weird. They’re slowing down. What’s going on?’ _

A heavy lump sits at the base of his throat. He wants to say something, but Dick can only watch in horrified silence.

‘Hood?’ Tim’s voice cracks. He casts his glance away, willing the tears that he’d built up to go away for a little bit.

‘B,’ he croaks, ‘Cave.’ Bruce, definitely pale under the cowl, nods jerkily. He attempts to move closer to Jason, to help him out, when Jason starts screaming.

It’s a pained, shrill sound that strikes the darkest fears in the deepest parts of his heart. He staggers back, reeling from shock. Oracle’s mechanical voice is gone, replaced with Barbara screaming into his ears and Duke trying to get some kind of response from any of them. 

Cass chokes, shaking in fear.

 

-+-

 

 

 

Getting shot at least thirty times by the same person, with extreme accuracy, fucking  _ sucks.  _ What sucks even more is falling off a forty-something floor building only to hit into a street lamp and tumble onto the floor.

Wade doesn’t notice any of that, his mind is full of thoughts about how he injured a  _ kid.  _ He hadn’t even asked, just went straight into fighting the colourfully costumed  _ child,  _ shooting and exchanging heavy blows.

He lies on the pavement, staring up into the endlessly dark sky. He wasn’t supposed to hurt children. He never wanted to hurt children. He  _ hated  _ hurting children.

A piercing scream shakes him out of his reverie, and the boxes cut themselves out of their loud shouting and panicking.  **That…** **_sound,_ ** Yellow gulps,  **thought we’d never hear it again.** _ We need to head back, Wade. _

‘I hurt a kid.’ He states. He absolutely hates how calm he sounded.  _ We know. But you need to pick yourself up and fucking  _ **_move._ **

‘I hurt a kid!’ He shouts, wounded muscles protesting as he sits upright, the stupid rashes return at full force, causing even more blood to spill out of him.  _ And I already told you, we know! What’s been done can’t be undone, dumbass. Pick yourself up and go. _

He has half a mind to just lay there and continue stewing in his own guilt but decides to head back to the hotel anyway. Plucking the bullets out, he disposes of them in the dumpster of an alley, walking past a trembling kid with a too-small shirt and shoes with too many holes in it.

He tries not to think about how brutally he wanted to kill Robin.

He should’ve  _ known,  _ Robin’s colours are as obvious as Batman’s logo. How had he not realised?! He knew all the names of the people he just met.  Nightwing, Red Hood, Batgirl, Black Bat, Red Robin. He knew them  _ all,  _ so how could he have forgotten  _ Robin?! _

The walk back to his hotel could’ve gone worse, really, especially when he saw Red Hood being hauled by a grief-stricken Batman and an ill-looking Nightwing. Red Robin looks spooked. The girl of the group seems to have disappeared.

‘I made him snap,’ he whispers, softly. His disguise fades a little, ‘I did that to him. I hurt his  _ little brother  _ and made him go berserk.’  **Not as if he actually cares about the kid,** Yellow snorts. ‘I know he does, I know.’

_ Whatever you say, big guy. _

He blocks out the image of expressionless white lenses staring down at him. He tries to block out the screams the helmet can’t muffle.

The feeling of suffocation and never-ending hate resurges, he doesn’t try to stop it; he doesn’t try to run away from it.

When he enters his hotel room, he immediately brings out phone; hoping it remained intact. Technology was pretty much the same in both universes, so this should work…

He hoped his SIM card was readable.

_ Babe?  _ He texts, trying to find the words to fit his emotions. His fingers tremble minutely as bare skin slides across the screen. Tears flood his vision, running down his face and dripping messily onto the screen. He doesn’t stop typing.

Minutes tick to hours, but Wade hasn’t stopped moving his fingers. His phone screen has dimmed considerably, the battery uncomfortably close to zero.

‘I’m sorry.’ He sobs, head hanging in his hands, ‘I’m  _ sorry,  _ Spidey. I’m  _ sorry.’  _ The mantra doesn’t stop, even when he sends the extremely long text.  _ Should’ve sent him an email,  _ White sneers, drowning out Yellow’s attempts of calming him down.

Wade should’ve sent an email because a notification pops up telling him he exceeded the 500 text bubble limit for his messaging app. He ignores it, ramming his phone into the charger and crawling ever so slowly into bed. He doesn’t take a shower to wash off the blood on his skin or take off his fucked up suit, he just lays in bed, brown eyes large and unmoving.

He stares at the window, where the big bat logo glares at him from the inky sky; as if it’s cursing him to all hell.

He should go to hell.

He really should.

Wade bets that Peter hates him more than anything right now. First, he breaks his promise, then, his teleporter fucks up. Now? He’s managed to fuck up so bad and he still  _ dared  _ to assume that Peter would help him?

He wasn’t even sure if the number he texted even  _ belonged  _ to Peter Parker.

A part of him hoped it didn’t, because Peter didn’t deserve to be treated like that. Peter deserved _ more.  _ Wade always liked aiming far too high. A chime goes off, then another, until it rings a total of around twenty times. He doesn’t bother reaching out, but continues to stare at the big black bat symbol.

He should just  _ stop. _

 

-+-

  
  


He’s drowning in green -- it’s in every nook and cranny of his mind, yet, at the same time, it’s nowhere. The cold blankets him, suffocating him as he tries to find what little warmth and love he can scratch up. He bites back a scream, choking on blood as he gets socked once, twice, thrice. Then, he feels his head swim with a haze of white. He’s eating dirt, tasting the grime and fungus, the wood and silk getting caught on torn fingernails and bleeding fingers; the belt buckle has turned warm and dull. His head sees black, there’s one name he keeps repeating. 

_ Bruce. Dad. Bruce. Dad. Bruce. Dad-- _

It returns to green, choking his insides and snaking around his torso. There’s something covering his eyes, vaguely feeling like cold hands.  _ That way,  _ it says,  _ you’re almost there.  _ He jerks his head, desperately trying to open his eyes His eyelids remain shut, and a creeping panic pounds in his veins.  _ No, listen to me.  _ It says, harsher,  _ you’ve been replaced. Forgotten. Thrown away. The Batman has a new Robin. The new Robin is better than you, his name is Timothy Drake. Batman doesn’t need you anymore.  _ **_Bruce Wayne does not want you anymore._ **

He whimpers. That’s not true. Bruce wouldn’t do that. He  _ wouldn’t.  _ Tim is a good kid, he’s his kid brother. He’s a good person. They’re both good people. Bruce  _ loves  _ him!

_ The Joker is still alive. The Joker is alive. Batman doesn’t love you. Bruce Wayne does not love you. _

Shut up, shut up, shut up!

He’s sobbing now, the green coiling around his torso has tightened immensely, digging into his skin and soaking in his blood. The darkness doesn’t go away.

He wants to leave, he wants to run away from the colours and just  _ die.  _ Why won’t they just  _ let him  _ **_die?!_ ** He screams, trying to chase them all away, but a crushing weight on his chest has him gasping for breath. The green of his eyes sees the light, all of a sudden, searching around him for signs of confinement.

He’s had enough of being stuck.

‘Jay?’ A hoarse voice cries, soft, scared. He stiffens up, feeling needles in his wrist and then he remembers his mom, with needles in her skin and insanity in her words. His hands are quick to tug at the needle, it needs to get  _ off, get off, get off! _

The image of a pale body with stringy red hair on mouldy wooden shocks him into working faster.  

‘Jay! No!’ She shouts, small hands covering his, trying to trap him in.  _ No, no. Let me go!  _ Hiccups force their way out, his inability to speak crippling him even more.

Stephanie’s red eyes and flushed cheeks move into his line of vision as she struggles against him. ‘Jason, _ please.’  _ He’d never seen her like this. With a final tug, the needle gets thrown across the room; blood scattering around the bed and onto his wrist.

She gasps, taking in a shuddering breath. ‘Why’d you do that?’ Her face is sunken; as if she hadn’t slept in a thousand years.

He stares at the wall behind her, thinking of a dead body carrying another out of the bathroom of a cramped house into the living room and crying over the dead before running off.

Heavy footsteps tromp down the stairs, followed by shouts. He turns his head slowly, eyes levelling to meet forest green eyes. His breath hitches, checking his youngest brother over thoroughly, cataloguing the bandages and compress packs.

Jason works his throat, trying to get some words out, but is rudely interrupted by Damian’s loud shouting.

‘Do you have any  _ idea  _ how long you’ve been out?! Father and Grayson have been worrying nonstop, and Pennyworth has been sub-par in his performance. The others are just as bad, they’re all sloppy and shaken up over wha-- ‘

‘Damian!’ Stephanie shushes, shoving him lightly in the ribs. ‘Brown,’ he frowns, ‘why are you not resting?’ Stephanie glares weakly, ‘he pulled out the IV drip, Damian.’ He glances briefly in Jason’s direction, ‘well, then fix it.’

‘I would, if you could move away.’ The young boy grumbles, but does as he’s told; hopping up onto the bed and plastering himself next to Jason’s uninjured arm.

‘No needles,’ he rasps, ‘no drips.’ Stephanie throws him an alarmed look, ‘but-- ‘

_ ‘No.’ _

She complies, bandaging him up instead. He would heal up soon. He knows. He hates how fast he heals, nowadays.

Stephanie floats away, presumably to inform the others or get some rest, while Damian remained next to him. He feels the little bat’s heart flutter, and a calm laps at his feet; the green retreats, harshly hissing at the waters.

‘You were impulsive,’ Damian huffs, Jason has half a mind to be witty, but he keeps his mouth shut. ‘I know,’ he says instead. The young boy looks taken aback, but shock morphs into indifference at the speed of light. They do not say more, basking in the Cave’s noises.

A series of footsteps speed closer to them, but he is far too tired to figure out who’s who. Bruce emerges first, cupping his face in warm hands.

The haze lifts over his eyes slightly, green wavering to teal.

‘How are you feeling, Jaylad?’ Bruce asks, softly, searching for signs of distress. Jason doesn’t know how to reply, emotions churning in his stomach. Fear, sadness, contentedness, raw anger, confusion,  _ guilt,  _ hate. There’s so much going on he can’t settle on one, but he’s afraid of saying them all for fear of rejection. Oh, rejection. He’s feeling like that a lot, recently. He’s also incredibly tired. 

‘I feel fine,’ he says, face pale.


	3. borderline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof, a short update before school starts!! sorry for the length of this chapter, i promise the next one will be longer!

Peter’s about to go crazy. He’s on the brink of insanity. Wade had been MIA for roughly two days -- not unusual, but they were on the phone, talking to each other and making plans for the drug bust that was going on down in the industrial parks near Tony’s factory when it abruptly cut.

At first, he thought it was just Wade’s battery going flat, and didn’t worry too much. Wade had the habit of not charging his phone and leaving apps running in the background, so Peter had gone to the rendezvous point; where they agreed to meet with Matt. The attorney was already there by the time Peter swung around, asking where their third member was.

‘He’s on the way,’ Peter answered, senses alert. Matt hums, head tilted at an angle. ‘How’s Foggy?’ The cowl’s lenses narrow, ‘shut up, Spidey.’ Peter giggles, nearly getting hit in the head with nunchucks.

They wait for another half an hour before sighting their targets, that’s when Peter feels something horrible twisting up his spine. ‘Where’s Deadpool?’ Matt asks, more urgently, his fingers wringing together nervously. Peter’s breathing quickens, a billion questions in his head.

Something had happened to Wade, he’s sure of it. ‘I don’t know,’ he chokes, fumbling with his phone, the skin of his suit making it hard for him to get a good grasp of it. He tries calling Wade, but the call doesn’t go through.

 _The number you are calling is unavailable. Please try again later,_ the mechanized voice rattles. He calls again, and again, and again. No answer. ‘He’s not answering!’ There’s a hiss of an arrow, aimed straight at their targets. His senses tingle, telling him that they’ve been spotted, but his mind doesn’t register it. He looks up instinctively to find Hawkeye standing above them, firing smoke bomb after smoke bomb, ‘you alright?’ The blond hero asks, calmly shooting through the haze, ‘heard Stark say something about a drugs operations near his property, so we came to check it out.’

Matt nods, ‘we’re on the case as well. Although, I’m pretty sure we told Stark about it already.’ Hawkeye shrugs, blue eyes confused. ‘Spider-man, are you alright?’ Peter doesn’t answer, lost in his thoughts. ‘Deadpool’s MIA.’ Matt supplies helpfully.

‘Hawkeye! Can we move in?’ A voice buzzes in Clint’s ear. ‘Yeah, go for it.’ Peter’s come to the conclusion that if Wade is indeed in trouble, then he’ll call for help. He knows he will. Steadying his breathing, he relaxes his stance. ‘We’ll worry about ‘Pool later, for now -- let’s get rid of them.’

Matt throws him a frown, but nods regardless.

Turns out, the new drug that’s been going around had destructive side-effects, causing harm and injury to many that consumed it. A brief rundown by Natasha confirms Peter’s suspicions: the drugs had included a number of radioactive substances that deteriorates the user’s health in small doses. Several cases of overdose had already been reported, bringing the authorities into the already troubling mess. They take down the operation a little messily, due to Peter’s own stupid, silly mistakes, but nobody seems to mind.

He’s mentally berating himself when Clint approaches him, ‘Peter.’ He hums an acknowledgement, ‘about Wade -- we tried to track him down with the trackers he’s got in his belt, but…’ Clint’s face is harrowing to look at, blue eyes regretful and swimming in guilt, ‘he’s gone. There aren’t any traces of him anywhere. I’m sorry.’

Peter bites the inside of his cheek, thankful that the mask shields his face. He doesn’t say anything, swinging away into the clear night. Matt yells at him, tells him to be careful, but he ignores it.

Wade will come back. He always does. He will. Peter refuses to believe anything else.

 

* * *

 

 

 

He wakes up with a start, blood pounding in his veins while he flushes hot and cold. The remnants from last night fade into his sight. It wasn’t a dream.

Wade Wilson almost murdered a pre-teen. 

 _Hey, something’s not quite right… where did the lights go?_ He blinks, sleepy eyes noticing a shadow looming over him. Quickly, he scrambles to the other side of the room, reaching for a knife he kept strapped uncomfortably close to his genitals. It’s not there.

Steadily, he shifts his gaze upwards. A blank mask stares back, cruel and pointless black reflects the light of the study lamp, giving off the evil appearance of a war-torn villain. The figure is dressed in all black, a yellow bat burning in the mid-afternoon light.

Lightly, they say, ‘found you.’

Wade feels his heart stop beating altogether. His blood turns into frozen sludge, trudging to a stop under his skin. His breathing quickens to an all-time high, similar to that of a hummingbird’s wings skittering in the wind.

‘Says to bring you in,’ Cassandra Cain continues, approaching him with slow, rustling steps. His throat dries up. Doesn’t take a fucking genius to guess who made that order. She stops abruptly, the mask turned to look at his phone on the floor. She’s making her movements obvious _for him,_ to tell him that she’s an open book now. Wade thinks he might be sick. Cassandra makes a vague hand motion, as if trying to articulate her thoughts on his crappy iPhone 3GS, ‘has been ringing the whole night. Someone called _Petey?’_ She tags a question at the end, her movements jerky and uncomfortable, ‘wanted to wake up, but afraid to scare you. Left voicemail.’

Wade’s brain latches onto the fact that Black Bat had been staring at her the whole night and then some. **Wade, Peter called.** ‘A-are you sure,’ he rasps, trying to work his throat properly. Yellow facepalms mentally. ‘That’s _my_ Petey?’

Black Bat cocks her head to the side, body stiff. ‘Yes,’ she replies tersely. She thinks she’s invaded his privacy. _Technically…_ ‘He was very… _scared._ Crying. Would not stop praying and mumbling. Someone else was with him.’

**_Peter is in trouble._ **

‘He was being comforted,’ she rushes to say, sensing the start of his panic. ‘Someone else, called… Matt?’ He’s okay, Peter is okay. _No he’s not. Peter was acting like that because of you; but go off, I guess._ I know that, Wade wants to snap, I know. I think about this scenario every moment I’ve been alive since I’ve met Peter. Shut up.

‘Come,’ she speaks up again, not a question, not a command. Her cape flaps loudly as she turns, and she leaps out the window without a second thought. ‘What if I don’t follow?’ He asks. Then, he realises his phone is missing. No phone, no Petey.

Maybe it’s better that way.

**And leave him to panic and probably kill himself accidentally? Amazing idea, Wade.**

His weapons are also missing.

Wade runs out the window, reckless and burning, keeping up with the silent warrior with ease.

 

* * *

 

 

 

‘Todd has refused us, once again,’ Damian reports crisply, an odd rejection in his voice. ‘His health is getting negatively affected. Not even _Pennyworth_ can see him.’ Fiery green eyes, much like his mother’s, burn holes into his soul, ‘Father, do _something.’_

Bruce’s mind was still reeling from his wayward son’s behaviour last night. He _saw_ the way Jason’s composure changed, he _felt_ the inhumane scream, experienced the weight of a dead body all over again.

Bruce felt the Lazarus Pit’s effects cling onto Jason when he woke up. He saw the hazy, bright, unnatural and strange green eyes recede back to the familiar teal.

Bile rises up his throat. What _has_ Jason gone through?

 _'Father,’_ Damien snaps, his fuse burning bright, ‘if you refuse to move so much as a _hair_ on your body, I _will_ exercise my right as your blood heir to do something.’ A heavy threat was implied. Bruce stands up mechanically, his legs working on autopilot as he walks towards Jason’s room -- the same room that welcomed young Jason and was locked away when he died; and never reopened ever again. The cold sweeps over him, as if the corridors have been visited by Death itself. Damian remains at his side.

He takes a deep breath.

_Knock. Knock._


	4. old memories that haunt

Bruce never shouted in front of Jason, _ever._ Not unless Jason was in danger. Bruce was a kind, great, amazing, stubborn father. He was the only father figure Jason could look up to without feeling that thread of disgust crawling up his spine.

Bruce had made sure that no loud, angry voices were around Jason. _To guard him,_ was Bruce’s intention, blind to the fact that Jason didn’t _need_ shielding because he already saw everything the cruel, ugly world had to offer.

That, however, was thrown out the window once Bruce and Dick were in the same room. The both of them were… aggravatingly _distant_ and suspicious of each other when Jason was thrust into the life of luxury. Dick had hated his guts, refusing to so much as _breathe_ the same air as him at first. _Robin isn’t_ **_yours_ ** _to give away, Bruce!_ Dick had screamed, a violent tremor humming under tense muscles, a searing gaze that would’ve torn him into _shreds_ had settled onto the glass case of the first Robin suit -- an ugly, long shirt and green panty _abomination._

Not that his own suit was any different: he still had the ridiculous long tunic that hid the seams of a slightly _longer_ green, now scaly, panty. And pixie boots, never forget _those._ The cape reached the back of Jason’s knees when it should have reached Robin’s waist. He knew he could never _be_ the Boy Wonder, that he will never hit the expectations Gotham and Batman have set for him -- but fuck him if he doesn’t at least _try._ A chance was presented to him, to become a better person, and he sure as _hell_ was going to clutch at it like a dragon protecting its hoard.

Dick had never been as nice and pleasant to him as he was to literally _everyone else._ Which stung him a little, because Jason had _never_ wanted to usurp something that meant so much to the older boy. He knew what it felt like to have something stolen under his nose, even if _he_ was the one who was usually doing the stealing.

Jason essentially stole Dick’s family legacy. It didn’t sit well with him. There were some things even thieves can’t touch.

But what other choice did he have? He was merely a puppet in their little spat, being pulled apart and strung back together whenever they wanted. _Batman needs Robin,_ Bruce would say, as if stating a fact, _then what were you before Robin?_ Dick would sneer, light eyes darkening in some weird sense of anger. Bruce would remain silent, as if mulling over the question, _lost. Losing myself._ Dick laughs, throwing his head back and doing that annoying high-pitched, absolutely _fake_ giggle, raw disbelief rolling off him in waves. _You seemed perfectly fine without me._ Batman blinks, eyes disinterested, _maybe I didn’t need_ **_you._ ** Dick’s fist crashes into the rough cave wall, jerking a squeak out of Jason, the bruising and bleeding is immediate.

 _Yeah,_ Dick sneers, _you sure didn’t need me after I_ **_rebelled_ ** _like a defected toy._ Bruce’s jaw slackens, shock and regret washing over his face. Jason stares, a million voices telling him to take the suit off and run upstairs, into Alfred’s patient arms and hiding behind the elderly butler’s coat tails for safety, he doesn’t like how it’s dissolving from a meeting into a _screaming match._

Dick continues, voice booming until it cracks, tears flowing down angrily. He storms out, in the end, spent. The roar of a vengeful bike tears out of the Cave, shaking Jason’s bones. Bruce’s eyes track Nightwing’s movements, but he does nothing.

Jason collapses, the tips of a panic attack dipping into his soul. He doesn’t say anything, shaking his head when Bruce asks him what’s wrong. _Do you want to go patrol tonight, Jason?_ He shakes his head, not daring to meet steel blue eyes. _Are you alright, Jaylad?_ He nods, taking a while to mutter, _I need to finish some homework._

There was no homework that needed to be done.

Just when he had a shot at _family,_ it gets torn apart. He doesn’t blame Dick. Jason _stole_ everything that Dick had -- Bruce, Alfred, his seat on the dinner table, _Robin._

Jason blames himself. He was always a thief.

Bruce always tried his best to cook for Jason, though it never always worked. Bruce might have been great at most things, like running an MNC, detective work, science, maths, humanities, being on time; but he was terrible at certain… _important_ things, like folding his own clothes, stacking coins into neat towers like how every rich person does on TV, emotions. Oh, and cooking. He was a _disaster_ in the kitchen. Alfred always told him how Bruce had travelled the  _globe_ to become the Batman, but he’d never told Jason just how terrible his father was at preparing fish congee.

Bruce rarely needs to do any cooking himself, anyway.

The first time Jason fell sick, three days after wearing the Robin suit for the first time, Bruce had panicked and called a confused and sleepy Dick Grayson in Blud, hurriedly asking for advice and near tears. Dick, in all his sleepy glory, had slurred a _Haley’s always gave me congee. Home-cooked food does wonders,_ before snoring away again. Bruce had taken the advice at face value, pulling up recipe after recipe for congee -- before finally settling on _fish congee._

Jason had never liked seafood. Mainly because it _smells._ But he never told anyone about it because seafood was still, well, _food._ Food meant survival. So, Jason had to suck it up and eat the damned fish congee.

The first attempt wasn’t particularly _bad,_ a little too salty for Jason’s liking, but the warm food had helped lull him to sleep faster than any medicine could. Bruce had, apparently, barred _Alfred_ from the kitchen, insisting that he could achieve the feat without creating too much of a mess. Bruce broke that promise, because Alfred had reportedly been… _disappointed_ with how messy the countertops were, and how sticky the stovetops and pots were. Though, there was no fish blood on any of the walls or in the sink; which was good enough for the elderly butler.

It was the first time Jason had felt the reality of how _changed_ his life had become -- he had a father who _cared_ enough to try; that had _loved_ him enough to stick by his side all night, reading Jane Austen until he fell asleep, and watched over him well into the day, skipping patrol and ignoring Gotham.

(It was also the first time Dick Grayson visited the Manor with no intention to fight. It was the first time his brother had sat on his bed, laughing with him and going through school work together, getting to know Jason more thoroughly.

It was the first time Jason was given a nickname by his new family. _Little Wing.)_

From then, Bruce had begun cooking fish congee -- and _only_ fish congee, ugh -- whenever Jason fell sick. Or got injured, which happened fairly often. If anyone had bothered asking either Alfred of Jason, Bruce had improved _tremendously._ It was tweaked to a standard Alfred approved of, and had just enough flavour that a drowsy Jason could still appreciate. It felt like _home,_ emitting the same warmth when Catherine would brew green bean soup when Jason wasn’t feeling well.

When Jason had dug his way out, been dunked in a weird pool of water and went a little crazy, then finally settled down and became less aggressive, Bruce had never made him any more fish congee. Mainly because Jason never alerted anyone when he was ill, which was due to his boosted immunity. He never fell sick anymore. Nobody was there with a warm bowl of green bean soup or congee to help him fall asleep faster when his body was healing from nasty wounds.

He was alone.

He deserved it, he supposed. It was almost ironic, how much of a soap opera Jason’s life resembled.

Here he was, lying in a bed that was clearly too small for him, curled up into a ball and staring at the study table that looked frozen in time -- a framed photo of Catherine, smiling, ethereal, next to a row of notebooks in varying colours, with green being the most prominent. A pencil box, simple and smooth, sat in front of them, sealed shut. Inside it, Jason bets, contained two pencils, one sharp while the other dull, of the same length, an eraser in the shape of Wonder Woman’s emblem, three blue and black pens, a yellow highlighter, and a ruler. If his memory doesn’t fail him, there should be a sticker stuck to the bottom of the translucent box: a smiling little devil with a green face. The walls were covered in notes, ranging from English Lit to the Sciences and Maths, to History and Geography. Bookshelves jammed pack with textbooks and various titles remind him of a simpler time.

Jason Todd, for the first time in several months, felt sick.

 _Should’ve taken a guest room,_ he muses, tired eyes staring at the rich brown and red carpet. He is drifting away again. The tyre swing visible from his bedroom window must be dirty. His stomach growls. It’s okay, he reasons, nothing can hurt him in this room but himself and his old memories.

He ignores the knock on the door, finding it more appealing to close his eyes and begin his slumber.

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s been a long, long while since he’s had the time to do this.

Wade is _not_ okay with finding out that Cassandra Cain makes all her moves so _painfully_ obvious for him. He knows how to read body language just as well, come on! He growls, anger sloshing out of control, as Cassandra tilts her head a _little_ too much, helmet glinting under the sun.

‘Hey, BB. I get it. I do. Stop being so fucking obvious. I can read movement too.’ He snaps, knowing the girl probably predicted it already. She tumbles onto the nearest rooftop, the LexCorp logo momentarily catching his attention, almost in shock.

Cassandra shakes her head, ‘not what I meant.’ She must be frowning behind the mask because she sounds terribly upset right now. ‘I am… I, uhm,’ fumbling, she waves her hands animatedly, signing: _I am confused and reeling from the fact that I cannot read you. Sorry if I offended you,_ choppily. **Well, that’s a first, I bet.** Wade’s eyes narrow.

‘You can’t read me?’

A shake of a head replies him. Wade offers a helping hand, which she gratefully accepts. ‘Weird.’ She takes off again, eastbound, faster than before, as if an emergency had occurred. A large digital display crosses their path. _July 2nd, 15:37._

 _That’s not right… yesterday was June 29, right?_ ‘What the fuck?’ He breathes, taking reckless leaps, mind whirring with calculations. Just how _long_ had he been out? 

‘Hey, Cassandra!’ He calls, soon after they enter an isolated tunnel, ‘how long were you watching me for?’ She stills, ready to attack. ‘You know who I am,’ there’s a harsh, dangerous undertone in her voice. He ignores her, ‘how long, Cain?’

She bristles, stiffening up even further, ‘one night. Last night.’ He ponders, walking next to her, ‘how long did it take to find me?’ She speeds up slightly, a hand resting in the folds of her cape, ‘two days. Cameras did not manage to catch much of you.’ He sucks in a breath, mentally berating himself. He hoped the other Bats were alright.

Speaking of the others…

‘Is Damian okay?’ He has no right to ask this, but he _needs_ to know. He needs to lessen his guilt before it swallows him whole. Cassandra forces herself to relax, ‘yes. Back to normal.’ There’s a question in her tone like she’s asking for confirmation about something else. ‘And… Jason?’ She remains silent, walking in sync with him. Then, she takes her helmet off, revealing a troubled face. ‘Don’t know,’ she admits, softly, ‘no news since last encounter.’

**Well, you done fucked.**

Cassandra looked a _lot_ younger than he’d remembered, but maybe it was because of the artists. Her dark eyes cast him a wary glance before they enter a Cave -- the _Batcave._ He wastes no time in marvelling at its wonders, Stark’s crib was _obviously_ cooler, instead turning a sharp left and walking into a containment cell.

His partner, and maybe friend?, makes a confused noise. ‘I mean, that’s what you escorted me back for, right? So I could provide you with answers as to why I’m terrorising your city and your family?’ A dark-skinned boy appears from behind a chair, silently taking Wade’s appearance in.

Duke Thomas -- latest edition to the vigilante family.

‘Do you need to be patched up?’ Duke asks, concern etched on his face. Wade stares at himself, finally noticing the batarangs stuck deep inside his flesh. Huh, they didn’t even itch. ‘Nah, it’s cool,’ he replies flippantly, suddenly missing Wolvie’s gruff, annoyed voice telling him to stop fucking around, ‘they’ll heal up pretty quick.’

He proceeds to tear the sharp projectiles out of his abdomen, pondering over _how_ he had managed to miss them. **Shock, maybe?** Maybe.

His audience watch, horror clear on Duke’s face while Cassandra’s eyebrows lift up a notch. The boy begins to stutter, flitting around the room to search for towels and bandages while his sister tries to stop Wade from “hurting himself”.

_Remember, they don’t know who you are in this universe. You’re not the “unkillable Deadpool”, just “the red figure”._

He makes a move to explain that he’ll _heal,_ but his newfound acquaintances don’t seem keen on listening. The blisters start to run along the expanse of his abdomen, his body’s weird way of clotting blood really fast. Wincing, he tries not to feel the burning and itching sensation, choosing to focus on the task at hand: keeping the bandages _away_ from him. They would make the condition even _worse._

Wade shuffles away, albeit loudly, towards where he knew Black Bat had kept his weapons -- and phone. Cassandra’s eyes narrow, hair tilting as she shifts her gaze. In her hands, a spray bottle is being opened. ‘If you would just _listen_ to me, Cassandra, Duke,’ he begins, making a show of unzipping the kevlar bag and, wow -- kevlar is one hell of a bitch material. This was why DD and Spidey didn’t want to have 100% kevlar suits, huh?

Duke’s head snaps up, hands tightening around the rolls of bandages. Wade takes out his guns, checking them to ensure that their safety was still on, then attaching them to their respective holsters. His rifle remains untouched, no use having an empty weapon. Next, the knives. He checks them over to look for scratches and bluntness and is relieved to find none. Hiding a grin, he straps them on his belt, keeping the longer ones parallel to his back and sides. He leaves his katanas alone, knowing that those would really break the thin ice he was treading across.

‘If you bandage me,’ he continues, ‘I would get even _worse.’_ The only way he knew to gain their trust was to… well… _Take your mask off?_ Now, Wade doesn’t have the self-confidence he always said he had, especially regarding his skin. Sure, he doesn’t _hate_ it, it’s useful to a certain extent, but he knows the underlying stigma that would rear its ugly head once he shows it. He’s not _ashamed_ of it, but he’s also not proud of it at all.

 **You have nothing to lose in this situation,** Yellow reminds him softly, **they don’t know who you are. All they see is an injured man who needs helps.** He has the mind to talk back and say that they could very well take him down, too, but remains silent. The tips of his fingers brush against the ends of his mask, a phantom burn around the ring of his neck. _You can do this,_ White chimes in. **_Do it for Spidey, you owe him an apology, at least._ **

But -- but he _can’t._ The overwhelming _fear_ of being called a threat, just based off how he _looked,_ of being avoided and handled like fragile glass; Wade doesn’t think he can handle it. The people in his own universe, in 616, they’ve all looked at him like he didn’t belong. They were merely tolerating him because he was useful, because of _Spider-man._ “If Spider-man managed to calm Deadpool into something unlike a threat, then it should be alright to interact with him.” The name _Deadpool_ itself is something akin to a curse. Wade Wilson is just another synonym for it.

Wade Winston Wilson was afraid of losing his mask, of showing who he was, because he was utterly _terrified_ of the mockery and wariness.

These people _clearly_ don’t trust him enough -- his weapons weren’t in the best form to fight at all. His own _cell phone_ was hacked into and scanned for any possible data available. They were trying to find out who Spidey really was, and how he and Wade were related. Wade would bet they checked up on _Ellie,_  and Logan, Nathan, Matt, Blind Al, _Foggy._ They’ve also bugged his fucking phone!

They don’t trust him. Why should he trust them?

Cassandra, seeming to notice his inner distress, shies away from him. ‘If you do not wish to share, it’s okay. Everyone has their own secrets.’ Wade stares, the wide lenses of his mask boring into her. She stares back, defiant.

Duke sighs, ‘honestly -- I just wanna make sure you’re okay.’ He approaches, ‘I’m not gonna ask how you know our names; we can settle that later. Right now, we need to-- ‘ The rolls of bandage drop, making a soft _dunp_ sound against the smooth cave floor. Dark, brown eyes are pinned to the sight of the closing flesh wound. The blisters have subsided minimally to make room for the regrowth, nothing else particularly interesting about that. Not to him, and anyone that knew him, anyway.

‘You-- ‘ He begins to explain, only to be cut off a sharp gasp.

 _‘Oh my God!’_ A female voice shrieks, blonde hair flooding his view. _‘You! You motherfucker!’_ She continues to scream, an unholy rage bubbling forth, ‘you caused Jay to-- _ugh!’_ She grunts, socking him in the left eye. **_Ow._ **

Duke shouts, while Cassandra holds the girl back forcefully. ‘No!’ Cassandra shouts, agitated, ‘B said no!’

 _'Fuck_ what Bruce says! Fuck it all! He-- _let me go, Cass, I need to--_ this asshole-- do you _know_ how hard it was to explain Jay’s injuries to his team? By the _Gods,_ whichever is willing to listen, I _swear_ I heard them preparing for _war!_ Now let me go or so _help_ me!’ She’s sobbing angrily, clear blue eyes blotted with red and tears, choking on her words as she struggles futilely in the stronger girl’s arms. Duke turns to stare at him, guarded and distrustful, he stands between Wade and the girls, ‘B’s orders are final… but… ‘ he trails off, shifting his glance.

Duke obviously stands with Stephanie, or who he _guesses_ is Stephanie. Was there any other Bat that was blonde? He couldn’t remember. There were too many of them running around these days, good lord. A bitter resentment curls up in his chest, at the sudden distrust, tangling with the ever-present guilt of harming not just one, but _two,_ kids.

Jason may be a young adult, but… the poor kid fucking _died._ That’s gotta mess up the way a body ages. And even if he looks like a twenty-five year old, Wade doubts Jason’s over twenty. Not yet legal. A _kid._

‘Let her hit me,’ he says hoarsely, chucking his weapons haphazardly all around him. The voice boxes are warning him not to do so, but he throws off his emergency knives as well -- the ones Cassandra didn’t notice -- ‘I deserve it.’

Stephanie, having heard that, found the strength to throw Cassandra aside and leapt over Duke, landing a vertical kick right into Wade’s head. His skull cracks upon impact, the heavy combat boots then strike his ribs, causing several fractures and bruises. His nose bleeds, splattering messily on the walls near the Batcomputer. The girl, for how inefficiently she fought occasionally in the comics, knew how to hit _hard._ Stephanie lands a final punch to his throat, causing him to choke on his blood and misery, before falling to the bottom of a wall.

‘And what happened here?’ A thunderous voice booms, cold and furious. Light footsteps patter down a flight of stairs, stopping to help Stephanie up. Wade blearily looks up, his good eye wincing at the ferocity of the green-eyed glare directed at him. The blonde seems to have suffered a scratch on both her elbows, but give no indication of being in pain. She continues glaring at Wade with boiling, unkempt fury. The lack of light made it seem like two demons with hardened eyes swarming down to attack him.

‘Cassandra, Duke, are the both of you alright?’ The two mutter their replies, with Duke supporting his sister, who sported a bruise on her cheek and several abrasions. ‘Damian, stand down. This doesn’t concern you yet.’ Damian, the kid, the same kid Wade _tried to kill,_ bares his teeth; turning around to argue, shielding Stephanie as much as he can, ‘it concerns us _all,_ Father.’ He snarls. He is ignored.

‘Stephanie.’ The word is laced with anger, disappointment, regret and something akin to pride, and it has the blonde near tears again.

 _‘Fuck you,’_ she spits out, Damian’s grip on her tightens, a warning to cease all brash actions.

Bruce Wayne stares down at all of them, steel blue eyes burning.

‘We’ll settle the issue soon, all of you. Duke, Damian, go help the girls patch up first. We shall deal with our guest later.’

Wade feels like he’s staring into the whites of Batman’s mask whilst looking directly into the world’s fiercest father’s mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the good stuff is coming?


	5. help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another short chapter, sorry! finals are coming up, so:(

Jason’s phone has been buzzing for the longest time, but he can’t find it in himself to move. It’s the vibrations that woke him up from his fitful slumber. He tries to shake away the loose grip sleep has on him, struggling to keep his eyelids from closing; his phone has stilled.

He suffocates in the silence for a bit before a small part of his brain sends signals to his body to tell him to _move._ Groaning loudly, he turns around, stretching his hand to find the sleek metal of his phone. The charger cord pops off with a click as he tugs the phone closer to him, and the peppermint green background is covered with a multitude of notifications.

As expected, Roy’s been texting him non-stop. The first few texts were talking about how much he’d missed Lian, who was back home under Oliver and Dinah’s care; then it was talking about the different foods he’s eaten, with pictures attached. Looking at them woke him up a little more, and he reminded himself to go grab something light for breakfast when he’s washed up. Roy’s last few texts were awfully cheesy, a few lines of heart emojis, lots of “I love you”s, and how much Roy couldn’t wait before he could go back home again. Jason snorted, scrolling further down to discover that Bruce had tried calling him a number of times, as well as sending him a text asking if he was alright.

Confused, he replies with a short _yes,_ and continues scrolling, reminding himself to reply to Roy later.

Today was strangely domestic.

It takes him a moment to realise that he was in his old bedroom, and the tide of green washes over his eyes, tilting his world to a side. He sits up, sending his pillow sailing across the room to hit the bookshelf, stumbling to get out of the room. He doesn’t want to go into the bathroom -- he _knows_ that there are old, expired hair and face-care products strewn around. If his room was just as he’d left it before he died, then there was no doubt the bathroom was untouched, too.

Jason dashes out, madly running towards the other end of the corridor, where Tim’s room was. ‘Timmy!’ He yells, voice hoarse, hoping that the thin boy was in. Expectedly, the door cracks open a sliver, showing a huge, dull blue eye staring straight at him; the door widens a little more, just enough for Jason to slip past. He hurtles into Tim’s bathroom, throwing up mere centimetres from the toilet bowl, causing milky white bile to splatter across the pristine white tiles.

‘Jason,’ Tim gasps, rushing over to keep him steady before he fell flat on his face, grabbing a wet towel that’s been sitting on the countertop and proceeds to wipe his sweat-stricken face. ‘Jason, we thought you’d left-- where have you _been_ these past two days?’ _I was asleep for that long?_ He opens his mouth to reply but ends up puking all over the floor again, causing them both to cringe. ‘Oh God, you’re burning like the sun,’ Tim’s voice reaches a panicking level, and he starts flailing around, looking for a face mask and antiseptic wipes. ‘Damn it,’ Jason swears lowly, inching away from his brother. He wasn’t _feeling_ sick two days ago…

Tim stammers a word about getting Alfred, gingerly nudging him into leaning his back against the wall, ‘just, uh,’ he fumbles, drenching the towel in cold water and laying it on his face, ‘don’t touch the towel.’ Jason wants to snip that he _can’t_ do anything but heave _air_ right now, but the needles in his chest prevent him from doing anything.

God, does he hate needles.

He stares at the orange of the wet towel trying to figure out _how_ he fell asleep, but his mind is one big blank. _Tired,_ he thinks, shallowly breathing through his mouth. _Maybe if I fall asleep here I’ll get better._ The rational part of his brain is urging him not to, but he’s so overheated and the towel was pretty much the _best_ thing in his life at the moment that he ignores it, choosing to let his heavy eyelids droop.

_Who was I waiting for, again? Ah, whatever, they’ll probably be gone once they realise I’m not worth their time._

 

* * *

 

 

‘Who put that towel on his face?! Is he _dead?!’_ Damian mutters angrily, swiping the offending orange thing aside to find an ashen face. Dread builds up in his body, Todd _might as well_ be dead. Drake squawks, his words muffled by the face mask, ‘I was panicking, okay?! I’ve never seen him _ill_ before!’

Pennyworth remains silent, the lines on his face creasing in worry as he takes in Todd’s appearance. ‘That’s enough,’ Brown sighs, agitated, ‘we need to move him to somewhere… _cleaner.’_ Damian agrees, Drake’s bathroom stank to the high Heavens and its floor was more milky than clean. ‘C’mon, Alf can’t do everything alone! Damian, help me move him. Tim, go away, you don’t need to fall ill too. Alfred, could you go prepare the med bay?’

The four of them waste no time in carrying out Brown’s instructions, Drake escapes with Pennyworth, dialling Father’s number as quick as he can and speaking in a rapid-fire voice. Brown and he do their utmost best to lift the, most possibly, heaviest person in the family. He grits his teeth, hating his small stature more than ever right now, dragging a part of Todd’s body with the speed of a snail. Brown isn’t the strongest girl in the family, either, but she can handle some weights better than he.

‘How fast do you think we can there?’ She asks, walking with ease while he lags behind. A grunt is her answer, she rolls her eyes in response. ‘Okay, you _Neanderthal,_ let’s go!’

They pass by Todd’s old room, the door to which is cracked and dented from the force of being swung too hard. Damian pauses in his tracks, causing Brown to jerk back. ‘Hey!’ She snaps, ready to shout at him to hurry, but looks towards the door and quietens. ‘Whose room is this, anyway? It’s always closed off and nobody’s allowed in.’ There’s a bitter undertone in her voice as if she was the only one who didn’t know the “Big Secret". His eyes study the interior, the messy bed, the neat shelves and organised desk. _How did I not notice that he hadn’t left? I didn’t bother to knock after Father tried._ ‘Todd’s room,’ he keeps his voice as emotionless as he can, trying not to flinch when he spots a picture of an auburn-haired lady, keeping his gaze level.

‘Oh? Then why isn’t anyone allowed in? Even Alfr-’

‘Before he died,’ his voice falls flat. Brown stumbles back, as if burnt, almost losing her grip on Todd. She doesn’t reply, her eyes averting the scene in front of her. ‘Let’s hurry, they must be waiting.’ Damian turns around, wondering what Todd was like, _before,_ and if he could ever be like that ever again.

 

_Probably not._

 

* * *

 

 

Wade is startled out of his mindless talk with White when Tim Drake and the family butler rush down into the Cave. He blinks, confused as to why they were preparing the med bay. It was daytime, from the light filtering through the cracks of the Cave ceiling, so why was it needed? The cell he’s trapped in is pretty resistant, he had no way of pulling a trick to unlock the door.

Not that he wanted to, but if things went to shit, he had to find a way out.

I mean, he does fight people like Poison Ivy, whose ability to control plants means that she could easily break through and toss the cell aside, he reasons, tapping the reinforced steel glass to the tune of a random pop song he couldn’t remember the name of.

‘Is everything alright?’ He asks when Tim turns around. The boy’s lower face is masked as if he was sick, but the confusion in his eyes is obvious enough for Wade to conclude that the others hadn’t been informed of his stay. ‘Uh,’ Tim’s apparent brain fart moment chooses to make itself shown.

‘Master Wade,’ Alfred interrupts, ‘are you feeling alright in there?’ Wade hums, plumping up his multitude of pillows, ‘oh, I’m good. But is anyone injured? I’ve got, like, super strong meds in my belt pockets, if you need. Hank Approved,’ he adds, ‘wanted to find a way to pay you guys back for not trying to kill me.’ Alfred coughs, disdain clear in his voice, ‘I’m terribly sorry for what Miss Stephanie did.’ He waves it off, ‘I really did deserve it. I hurt the small one, which set Jason off.’

Tim’s gaze on him sharpens into painful points, _‘you,’_ he starts off threateningly, but Alfred places a hand on his shoulder, stopping him effectively. ‘Young Master Tim, Master Bruce has ordered that no more harm shall be done to our guest. Miss Stephanie has done enough.’ Tim’s seething as he bites a _“good for her”_ roughly, crumpling a sheet of _metal_ into _dust._ ‘I wasn’t at my best.’ He argues weakly, shielding himself from the heated gaze.

‘Besides, wasn’t it obvious that your elder brother isn’t okay?’

That seemed to have struck a chord within the other two, given that the both of them scuffled around in what appeared to be guilt; Alfred had a grief-stricken look on his face, and went back to the med station. Tim, however, stayed behind. ‘How would you know? You’re an _outsider.’_

Ignoring the hatred, Wade hums, ‘maybe it’s _because_ I’m not part of whatever this is. From a stranger’s point of view, Jason just seems… horribly _lost._ Like he has no aim, no goals. He’s living every day just for the sake of it. And… take it from someone’s whose lost everything before, whose become something everyone dreads and hates, Jason’s _not_ in a good spot right now; he’s digging himself into a hole so _deep_ he doesn’t even _want_ to get out anymore.’

Tim doesn’t give him any reaction nor reply, simply staring at him with wide, sharp almond eyes. From how the lighting changes, it seemed that the left eye was a bright clear blue while the right eye was an inky black abyss. Wade stares right back, his skin itching below the mask. Try as they might, the Bats couldn’t get Wade to take off his mask. The material of his new clothes was soft and comfortable, not irritating his skin in any way, White hums in the background, trying to get him to abandon the mask so his face could get some fresh air.

‘There’s nothing “fresh” about a Cave,’ he snorts, ignoring Tim’s questionable gaze. ‘Look, what I’m saying is that if nobody offers to _help_ him; he’ll end up dying from the inside out. And it’s nasty.’ _You would know,_ White murmurs, piping up for the first time in a while. ‘I would know,’ he reaffirms. ‘Look, Tim, I don’t know who’s a good doctor in this world or anything, so I’ll just stop sticking my nose into places where I don’t understand. Your brother’s sick. He’s been sick for _ages,_ and neither of you bothered to help, or refused to acknowledge it.’

Harsh footsteps stomp echoes in the Cave, causing the restless bats to start squeaking and flying around. Wade stops himself from going further, choosing to instead pick at his marred skin. He notices Tim’s attention shifting as well, torn between staying and going to help, presumably, Jason.

‘I want to help him.’ Tim says, after what felt like an eternity, ‘I-I took Robin from him, his _family,_ I should’ve been _dead_ but he didn’t kill me. He’s helped me so many times -- I want to help him.’ Wade blinks owlishly at the young boy, confusion on his tongue.

 

‘Teach me how.’


	6. am i the fool?

He looks like hell spat him back out, if she was being honest.

Stephanie was never close with Jason Todd, she doesn’t know much about him -- before or after his death. Nobody bothered to tell her, and she never bothered trying to find out. He didn’t do anything to harm her, besides trying to kill Tim, but she now knows that he wasn’t in the… right state of mind during that rampage; if anything, he’s done quite a bit to help her.

He was the one that bothered to slow down and make sure she was keeping up, offering to train her to fight the way she was most comfortable with: using the things closest to her. Be it a brick, a steel pipe or someone else, Jason had taught her how to use them to win a fight without exerting too much effort or strength. While the others made her train with various weapons and different fighting styles, Jason swept those away, choosing to improve on what she already has.

Jason was a huge constant in her crime-fighting life. Not just physically, but metaphorically. From the stories that Dick would narrate, Bruce was a lot less… rigid before Jason’s death; he was literally a _doting father._ Bruce would spend time with both Dick and Jason when they were younger, reading them stories, helping them with work. It wasn’t until Jason’s adoption that Bruce would skip patrols and tossing Gotham away to keep him company, to be a father to a fighting soul. Dick would sometimes joke about how _jealous_ he was that Jason got more attention from Bruce than he although it was him that came first.

After Jason, though…

Well, everyone knows how Bruce was after Jason.

Any mistake that anyone made on the field would be harshly reprimanded, and steel eyes would always drift to the stupid glass case towering over them. He became more detached. Then Jason _came back,_ and Bruce became someone even _Alfred_ couldn’t recognise for a while. Tim, who’s had a pretty stable relationship with Bruce up to that point, saw himself getting further and further away as Bruce drew in on himself.

Stephanie doesn’t know what to make of Jason’s old room -- a living _shrine_ to the former Robin. It just… felt wrong, to be there, gazing at a broken door of a broken son. She feels a tad bit sick knowing that Bruce hasn’t moved on, that he still Jason sees as Robin even though he’s now Red Hood. Chasing after ghosts and living in disillusion was something she knew well, but never in her life would she come to the realisation that _Bruce Wayne_ did as well.

That thought was disturbing.

‘How are you feeling?’ She chooses to ask, hoping, _praying,_ that the answer is truthful. Jason’s soulless eyes graze her skin, torching it and sending danger down her spine, _not that he would know,_ ‘I feel fine.’ That one sentence causes her mind to bounce back home, when she’d tell that to everyone who knew her family was in shambles. She tried so _hard_ to believe the lie she created for herself. ‘Are you really?’ An eyebrow raises up, she resists the urge to throw a Tim-face at him. Jason stares back, shrugging, making a show of proving his statement, ‘really, I’m fine.’

Jason Todd was an actor. And he plays it damn well.

Unconvinced, she drags a chair and plops down next to him, ‘Damian’s saying that you’re a terrible role model and won’t stop complaining about it to Dick..’ He ignores her, focusing on the cell situated in a well-lit area of the cave. _Poison Ivy’s specially constructed cell? Who’s in it?_ A faint outline of a bulky figure moves, and then white diamonds stun her.

Rage consumes her immediately. She’d thought that Bruce had finally dealt with that asshole, but he _didn’t._

‘Who’s he?’ Jason murmurs, uninterested. ‘The guy that attacked Damian,’ she spits out roughly, _the guy that did this to you._ ‘Oh.’ He doesn’t say anything more, frozen. Cass and Duke come shuffling towards them, worried in their own way. She nods as a form of greeting, trying not to grimace; Duke smiles lightly, radiant as ever, while Cass goes up to her and gives her a hug.

Neither of them approach Jason.

‘He looks a little sick,’ Jason whispers, lifting a finger and pointing to Wade. Cass nods, tucking Jason’s blanket properly, ‘yes.’ Jason blinks, lips stretched into a thin line, and some part of Stephanie wanted to peek into his mind, to see what he was seeing. She’d expected a more… violent reaction to Wade. Not this listlessness. Another part of her brain tunes in to how both Cass and Jason said that Wade had _looked_ sick, nothing about the man’s behaviour and actions (except for how he mumbles to himself, and refuses to part with his mask) point out that he’s _sick._

 _Not all illnesses are physical,_ her mom had said. She startles, focusing on their prisoner, _not all illnesses are_ **_physical._ ** She glances at Jason, then back at Wade.

 

 _Not all illnesses are physical._ She knew that, she once felt it affect her, too. How was it that she was so _slow_ to notice this?

She knew the answer; of course. People hide things all the time, and in their case, it’s the fact that they weren’t okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i basically died for like half a year and iM SORRY! i'm sorry this was so short:") hopefully more updates may come in the future!!

**Author's Note:**

> Come shout at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/Ankh_o) and on [tumblr](http://hunkjasontodd.tumblr.com) about anything related to this fic, or just say hi!
> 
> Tell me what you thought of this fic down in the comments, please!


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